things I wanted to say, about what a dear you were, and how much I—I liked you, and that you had such lovely eyes, and a nose—”
“Billy!” This time it was Bertram who was sitting erect in pale horror.
Billy threw him a roguish glance.
“Goosey! You are as bad as Aunt Hannah! I said that was what I wanted to say. What I really said was—quite another matter,” she finished with a saucy uptilting of her chin.
Bertram relaxed with a laugh.
“You witch!” His admiring eyes still lingered on her face. “Billy, I'm going to paint you sometime in just that pose. You're adorable!”
“Pooh! Just another face of a girl,” teased the adorable one.
Bertram gave a sudden exclamation.
“There! And I haven't told you, yet. Guess what my next commission is.”
“To paint a portrait?”
“Yes.”
“Can't. Who is it?”
“J. G. Winthrop's daughter.”
“Not the J. G. Winthrop?”
“The same.”
“Oh, Bertram, how splendid!”
“Isn't it? And then the girl herself! Have you seen her? But you haven't, I know, unless you met her abroad. She hasn't been in Boston for years until now.”
“No, I haven't seen her. Is she so very beautiful?” Billy spoke a little soberly.
“Yes—and no.” The artist lifted his head alertly. What Billy called his “painting look” came to his face. “It isn't that her features are so
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